


Sometimes There's an Echo

by strawberryskylines



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, M/M, Romance, Smut, Sorry?, and none of the other boys talk at all, but there are blowjobs too, i just noticed that, there is a lot of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryskylines/pseuds/strawberryskylines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- he doesn’t like the silence because it reminds him that he’s alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes There's an Echo

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, there. 
> 
> This is my first ever 1D/Larry Stylinson fanfic. Like, ever. 
> 
> Put a lot of effort into this, I hope everyone likes it. Hopefully, there is more to come.

Harry doesn’t like the silence.

He doesn’t like it when he goes out to a club at night – with all of its pulsing noise, streaming liquor and grinding, perspiring bodies – and takes part in all the fun, all the chaos, all the stupidity. But then stumbles drunkenly into an empty and deafeningly quiet flat when he somehow manages to make it home. He doesn’t like it when he wakes up in the morning after those nights at the club to hammering headaches, queasiness, and nobody puttering around in the kitchen or taking way too long in the shower.

He doesn’t like going to do his groceries and having to only carry one shopping bag back home. Stocking up his fridge is sad because it takes him barely five minutes and there’s no amusing banter with another about how many vegetables he’s boughten or his choice in tea.

He doesn’t like watching what some would horribly label ‘chick flicks’ not only because they sometimes make him cry - _sometimes_ , and _only_ when there’s a major character death - but because when he watches them, he’s curled around a throw pillow, not a person. There’s no one to hold his hand, brush their warm fingertips through his hair and say, “It’s only a movie, Harry.”

He doesn’t like it when he rolls over at god-knows-what o’clock in the morning when he wakes up, hands outstretched, fingers grabby and needy, but there’s no one to hold onto. He wants so badly to whisper “good morning” and have somebody whisper it back just as sincerely, just as softly as he does, but there’s no one there. There’s never anybody there, although sometimes there’s an echo.

He doesn’t like the silence because it reminds him that he’s alone.

The only periods life has seems to allow him some human interaction is at work, where he gets to spend his time serving coffee and cupcakes with his best mate, Niall. And it’s fun, because about ninety percent of the time, it’s Harry bending over backwards to heed to every customer’s need while the blue-eyed boy wolfs down freshly baked pastries in the back.

Niall’s a good lad, all blonde hair and insatiable stomach and loud voice, but outside of the bakery, he’s got a life that, sadly, Harry isn’t included in. An actual life that involves going to Uni every day and playing footie with mates that Harry’s never met and texting his equally lovable girlfriend every hour on the hour all these adorable winky faces.

So, sometimes Niall is all Harry needs to fill that gaping void of emptiness in his chest, but most of the time, he’s not enough.

And Harry’s got another friend, Liam, but Liam is always busy. ‘Busy’ means that he’s constantly taming flames with water hoses and saving hostile cats from trees and getting paid to save people’s lives, so he and Harry only ever hang out a few times a month. But those occasions are always cut short because in the middle of a pint, Liam’s mobile will vibrate urgently and then he’s gone with an apology and promise that’s never fulfilled to pick up where they left off. Harry guesses that if his flat is ever aflame, he can count of Liam to save him, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

(This is strictly a secret, but one time when Liam was on call at the fire station, Harry had this sudden impulse to become a pyromaniac. Just start setting random fires to everything, so that Liam would come and put them out and maybe grab a bite to eat with him after. That was also the day he hit rock bottom.)

And so here he is now, trying to recover from hitting the absolute lowest he could possibly go – or maybe he can stoop lower than arson, just give him some time – with a pint in his hand and no one by his side, as usual.

It’s a Friday night, and the pub is surprisingly thriving with life as people spill in and out of it, chatting it up and swallowing their drinks down. It’s only startling because the usual lot at Cowell’s on a Friday evening consists of small clusters of people prepping with cheap beer briefly before heading out to a place with real music and livelier people. Like a warm up before the actual game. No one really spends the whole night at the bar, so it’s definitely strange to see groups setting up camp at the counter and the other booths. Someone’s even fired up the karaoke machine in the front, belting out the lyrics to some Spice Girls song, atrociously off-key, and they’re not even getting the words right. Maybe the universe wanted to rub it in his face by showing him all these other people out with their mates and having a good time? Maybe.

By now, they’ve kicked the karaoke singer whom sounds like a cat being run over multiple times by a large truck off the makeshift stage up front, and a girl with a lovelier, much smoother voice has taken her place. She’s crooning an upbeat song too, but it’s definitely more modern and has an electronic dance beat to it, lyrics about everlasting love or something equally stupid.

That’s all the incentive that some bar patrons need to turn the pub into a mini dance club, apparently, because they’re already pushing tables this way and that, out of the middle of the room to clear some space. The bartender protests loudly, his face beet red, but no one cares as they crank up the volume on the karaoke machine and form a flash mob of shaking hips and waving arms.

And then there’s Harry, still sitting in his pathetic booth in his pathetic corner, drinking his pathetic drink because he’s so damn pathetic. But that’s okay, because at least these enthusiastic dancers are giving him a show. He watches with silent glee as a guy with muscles too big to fit into his shirt comes up suggestively behind a girl gyrating on her own. The guy makes a move but the girl shimmies successfully away from him and back into her pack of female friends where they stand in front of her like human shields.

He sees a boy who’s obviously had way more to drink than he can handle spill his beer all over some girl wearing a really nice and expensive looking blouse, and watches another group of girls chat it up animatedly with the bartender, most likely trying to lighten the mood after they basically rearranged his pub.

He could go and dance, too, if he wanted. He’s pretty sure that not everyone here knows one another, and he’s almost positive that if he just got up and started dancing, no one would care. No one would probably even notice him.

He should, but he doesn’t.

He just continues to people-watch and sips his drink on occasion, because that’s just what hermits do. And everything is all super fine and dandy until there’s a break in the mob of dancers a few minutes later, where a sole body is swaying slightly to the music.

That’s the exact moment Harry looks up and sees him.

There’s a boy in the middle of the crowd, a boy with his eyebrows are raised like he’s asking a question. The stare is a bit intense, so Harry averts his gaze back to his drink. Because maybe he’s not looking at Harry. Maybe he’s looking at someone else? He’s got to be.

It’s all very childish, but peeking through his hair, cheeks blossoming red, Harry chances another look, and _yes,_ the boy is staring directly at him. Him and him only (unless there’s an invisible person sitting beside Harry, which is definitely unlikely), and wow. That’s new.

So, Harry stares, because what else is he supposed to do? He watches or looks or whatever you want to call it, and the best part is, the boy does it right back. He doesn’t move away or drop his gaze or even blush. In fact, the boy noticeably wavers for a brief second before he’s moving across the floor in the exact direction where Harry is sitting. Like, he’s actually walking over to the table.

This sucks only momentarily because Harry was definitely not prepared for this, so he prays to any God listening that he’s got nothing in his teeth and his hair is curling just so.

It’s the eyes that he notices first when the boy stops in front of the table; they’re glittery from alcohol and wide and so damn blue that Harry feels like he’s already lost in them. But that’s okay, he really doesn’t mind. After the eyes, it’s the hair, all feathery like, splayed across the boy’s forehead.

The muscles of his arms strain a little bit against the fabric of his T-shirt. He’s also wearing these mint green skinny jeans that should be comical, but damn, he wears them well.

The boy only says one word, tapping his fingers to the beat of the music on the table top. “Dance?”

Harry could say no. He really could, if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to be a hermit anymore and be the only person in the pub who’s all by themselves because _he’s always by himself_.  He takes a breath and says, “Um, yeah. Sure.”

The song has changed again, and the beat to this one is more dance-y, more electronic. The singer can actually sing, which is nice, and she’s really into it too, crooning into the microphone like she’s performing for thousands. The boy takes Harry by the hand out onto the dance floor, right into the center so it’s like they’re in the middle of the universe or something.

He wastes absolutely no time in gripping both of Harry’s wrists and then bringing them up to his hips. His lips quirk upwards in a small smile and _oh my god, is that stubble on his jaw?_ He says, “Hi.”

“Huh – hey – hi. Hi. ” And it feels like there’s cotton in Harry’s mouth or like he’s just beginning to learn the English language, and he really, really hope that the boy thinks he’s cute and not illiterate.

Laughing so that his teeth are on display and his eyes crinkle a bit, the boy introduces himself, “I’m Louis.”

And Harry would shake his hand, but with the position they’re in, it surprisingly doesn’t seem appropriate. He says, “Harry.”

They’re moving together now, dancing with their body’s aligned, music pulsing through their veins. There are people crushing them in from all sides, people with their drinks sloshing over the rims of their cups that make the floor sticky and obnoxious laughs that somehow carry over the music. But Harry doesn’t really care because the atmosphere is loud and there’s a beautiful boy with a fantastic bum grinding on him, and he’s not feeling at all lonely right now.

Louis is the first one to separate them after a few seconds, spinning quickly in Harry’s arms so that they’re facing each other. His eyes are dark navy now, and there’s a thin layer of sweat on his golden, golden skin. Harry is immediately scared that the other boy is going to pull away from him with a _this was fun, see you never_ , but Louis is still moving his hips in tiny circles against Harry’s, so that has to mean something. Most likely something good. Leaning in close, breath warm on Harry’s cheek, Louis asks – or rather yells – over the music, “How old are you?”

Harry tries to sound all proud and mighty when he answers, “I’m nineteen.”

Louis pauses in movement for a little bit over two seconds, but then he’s back at it again, lips rubbing up against the shell of Harry’s ear, saying, “You’re practically a child.”

“’m not.” Harry quickly reassures him, puts a bit of emphasis on the fact by rolling his hips in such a way that makes Louis’ eyelids flutter a bit. That’s when Harry notices how long his eyelashes are and _wow_.

Louis pulls away, hands coming up to clasp and interlock at the back of Harry’s neck, and that’s when Harry realizes how much taller he is than Louis. It’s not much, maybe a few inches or so, but it’s enough to make his heart beat quicken. This boy is going to kill him. Louis doesn’t notice though. “It’s okay, I’m not much older. Twenty one.”

And then they dance some more without talking, pressed close together. They face each other, locking hips and intense gazes, emerald melting into sapphire and vice versa. People bump into them from time to time, but they’re mostly oblivious. During some familiar Top 40 song, when Louis breaks away from Harry and starts into an awkward robot dance, Harry laughs over the music, “You’re a terrible dancer.”

Louis doesn’t stop dancing, only rolls his blue, blue eyes and says, “Well, you’re terrible at flirting.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Harry quirks up an eyebrow, and begins to feel a little bit lonely now that there’s a gap between him and the older boy.

And then Louis throws his head back so the creamy skin of his neck is visible and he laughs, “See what I mean?”

They continue like that for quite some time, flirting shamelessly and moving together. The hours tick by quickly. The songs change every few minutes. The people around them begin to dwindle as the night goes on, mostly because they’ve gotten in all the liquor and dancing they could take for one night. It’s like a bit of a warning for Harry, one screaming, _the night is almost over. You’ve got a gorgeous boy in front of you and an empty flat. What are you going to do?_

He could end this right now if he wanted to. He’d met Louis only a few hours ago, and there’s nothing that he signed beforehand that said he _had_ to keep in touch with the boy. But, this thing is, he kind of doesn’t want this to stop. This is the first night in a very, very long time where he’s felt like he’s not so pathetic and that there’s a possibility that he won’t be lonely anymore. He wants to milk this feeling as long as it’s allowed.

When the music begins to slow, Harry opens his mouth and says, “You want to go back to mine?”

Louis’ eyes twinkle with mischievous glint and he uses his elbow to nudge Harry in the ribs. “You move awfully fast, Harry.”

“We don’t have to _do_ anything.” Harry feels his cheeks lighting up all cherry red with embarrassment, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, mostly to hide the fact that they’re shaking. He’s never really asked someone back to his flat before; he doesn’t know how this works. “We could just talk, if you want.”

“That sounds really nice.” Louis folds his lips together like he’s hiding a smile – which is a shame cause he should never hide something like that – and places a warm hand on Harry’s chest. “I’ll be right back, stay here.”

Harry stares as Louis disappears back into the swarm of closely packed bodies, and then watches as the boy reemerges on the other side. Louis makes his way over to a booth on the opposite side of the bar from where Harry had been seated, where a gaggle of people are seated, girls and guys alike. (This is the moment where Harry glances back at his own booth, unoccupied ever since he abandoned it, and silently envies Louis for all his friends).

The older boy lingers at the table for a bit, now with what looks to be a jacket slung over his shoulder. He leans down and then whispers something Harry obviously can’t hear in the ear of a boy with a jet black quiff and an unlit cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth. Black Hair raises his eyebrows up at Louis and then says something back. Then Louis rolls his eyes and waves a hand behind him, gesturing towards the dance floor.

Black Hair doesn’t look though, only grabs Louis by the elbow and says something once more. They stay like that as the song changes, and now the tempo has gone slower, the once furiously gyrating bodies around Harry keep gyrating, but just in slow motion now. That’s when Louis smiles, leans down a bit further and then plants a kiss on Black Hair’s cheek. Harry ignores the burning feeling in his stomach.

When Louis gets back, he’s got a smile on his face and his hair is a little mussed. He puts a hand on Harry’s waist and he guides them through the throng of people to the other side of the pub so that Harry can get his coat. When he does, they switch places so that as they walk to the front doors, it’s Harry who’s got an arm around Louis. A little possessively, but.

Glancing back over to where Black Hair is sitting with his arms curled around a mysterious girl with purple (?) hair, Harry asks, “Who is he?”

Louis simply lifts his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug and says, “He’s my boyfriend.” 

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Of _course_ he’s got a boyfriend. Of course the one boy who Harry truly believes that he might actually have a shot with is taken. Of course it would be this way because his life just likes to fuck him over and continuously remind him that he’s doomed to eternal solitude. He runs a hand through his curls and trips over the words that tumble out of his mouth. “Well, we don’t have to hang out if that’s not okay with him or he can come too -”

“Harry.” Louis reaches up and presses a finger against Harry’s lips to silence him, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. His skin is warm. His blue eyes are full of pure mirth. “I’m joking.”

Words cannot begin to describe the wave of relief that floods over Harry in that moment. When Louis removes his finger, Harry feels like pouting because of the loss of contact but instead he says, “You’re terrible at jokes.”

“Your dimple comes out when you’re nervous.” Louis says quietly, and then removes the finger touching Harry’s lips so he can press his thumb into the dent on Harry’s cheek briefly before pulling away like he’s trying to make a point. And then he slides into his jacket and pushes his fringe off his forehead in order to place his red beanie on correctly before he looks up at Harry with shining eyes and says, “It’s cute.”

Harry rolls his eyes as he pushes open the door to the pub open for both of them, the brisk night air greeting him like a slap in the face. It sobers him up a bit, but he’s still got a nice buzz going and his stomach is still warm. “You’re such a charmer.”

“Aren’t I?” The older boy wiggles his eyebrows playfully and follows Harry out onto the sidewalk. The door to the pub closes behind them, and they can no longer hear the music. It just sounds like a distant thump now. There a few people loitering about the entrance, some rocking around drunkenly, others in groups with their shoulders hunched up, braving the cold.

He really doesn’t want to say anything because he knows that if he does he’s going to look inappropriately jealous and bitter, but ever since it happened, the kiss on the cheek keeps replaying behind his eyelids every time he blinks. Yeah, it was a simple kiss on the cheek, but it was still a _kiss._ He tries to let it go, but he’s literally dying to know, so while they’re stopped at a curb to let traffic whiz by them, he asks, “No, but really, who was he?”

“He’s my best mate. His name is Zayn.” Louis says it like he already knew that it was buzzing around in Harry’s mind. “He was gorgeous, right?”

And, yeah, Harry can admit that he was. He had that whole leather-jacket-wearing-cigarette-smoking bad boy image going well for him. “Sure.”

“He and I dated for like … five minutes.” Louis says, and then punches Harry on the arm when the younger boy presses his pink lips together in order to stifle a giggle. “No, I’m serious. We were both pining for some kind of companionship that wasn’t each other … cause we live together, y’know? So it was my brilliant idea, and I was just like, hey, why don’t we date each other? And he agreed, and we kissed and then that’s when we realized that we had absolutely _no_ chemistry other than being best friends.”

Harry nods like he understands, but he doesn’t, not really. The closest he’s ever got to falling in love with a best mate is that time when Niall had made him dinner for his birthday, and since it was such a special occasion, he didn’t even sneak bites of the entrée while he was cooking. Instead of bringing it up, he questions, “No fireworks?”

“Nope.” Louis shakes his head, and some of the fringe that hadn’t been pushed back into his beanie splays into his eyes. Harry bites his lip and looks away, because if he doesn’t, he just might reach out and push some of the hair back himself. And he can’t do that, not now, because, yeah, they are headed back to his flat, but they’ve only just met, and it might be weird to get handsy so early. They cross the street. “I didn’t even get little baby butterflies in my stomach like I normally do when I kiss someone.”

Harry’s mouth quirks up again as he raises an amusedly curious brow. “Baby butterflies?”

“Don’t make fun of me. You’re still a shitty flirter. I’ll never forget it.” Louis mutters grumpily, but the spirited gleam in his eye says otherwise.

_I hope you don’t_. Harry thinks, or maybe prays. Mostly prays.

\--

In no time, they’re in Harry’s flat.

It honestly feels like they’re in a book and some impatient reader skipped a couple of paragraphs. Or like a movie-watcher fast forwarded on a film to get to the good part, because the next time Harry blinks, he and Louis are standing in the threshold to his flat.

“Not bad.” Louis folds his lips together in false approval, slipping off his jacket and hanging it rather sloppily on the coat hook by the front door that Harry never uses. He demonstrates that too, peeling off his own coat and tossing it without much care on the armrest of the couch before fumbling around briefly for the lamp perched on a table adjacent to it. When he finds it and flicks it on, the living room is immediately illuminated in a yellowish glow, but if possible, it only makes Louis’ eyes look bluer than he’s seen them all night. Harry’s never been more thankful that he cleaned before going out in his life.

He moves to the other side of the room and switches on the light in the kitchen, and the comes back out, rolling his eyes as he toes out of his boots, leaving them in the middle of the living room floor, just like that. There’s no one else that lives there to tell him not to do that, so. “You don’t have to be polite. I know I live in a piece of shit.”

Louis opens his mouth like he’s about to protest, but then he closes it, lifting his shoulders lazily in agreement. He’s about to make his way over to the couch, but the wall beside the front door catches his eye. It’s not much really, just a couple of photos that Harry had taken back in Cheshire and had framed, for memories. He scans them in what looks to be thoroughly, nearly pig-pressing his nose up again the glass of each one. And then he gets to a certain one, one that Harry had taken of Gemma. He squints at the photograph for a minute before asking gently, “Is this your mum?”

“That’s my sister, Gemma.” Harry corrects, sidling up breezily next to Louis where he’s standing with his hands on his hips in front of the pictures. He points to the picture beside the one of Gemma on her first day of Uni. “This is my mum.”

“They both look just like you.” Louis comments, eyes shifting from Harry’s face to the photographs. He pauses on them again for a minute, like he’s memorizing them, and then he asks, “You miss them?”

“All the time.” And it’s the truth, because he really does miss waking up to his mum’s voice in the morning, telling him to hurry up and get dressed before he’s late for school. He misses how Gemma would tease him non-stop – although at the time he wasn’t too fond of it – about all the girls in younger years who had little crushes on him. He misses being able to come home after a long day and his mum have dinner ready, he misses Gemma sitting down and helping him with his homework when she was up to it.

“I’ve got a sister, too. Well, four, actually.” Louis pipes up proudly, eyes glazing over so they look glassy like he’s recalling nostalgic moments of when he lived with his family too.

With a small smile, Harry inquires, “You miss them?”

The older boy mimics him, one corner of his mouth turning skyward. “All the time.”

Harry moves away from him then, suppressing the urge to snog that smile off the other boy’s face and strolls into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “I’ve got tea.”

“’S okay.” Louis has abandoned the picture wall and now he’s taking a place on the couch, wiggling into the throw pillows to get comfortable.

“I’ve also got food.” He gestures to his refrigerator and cabinets on either side of him with his arms outstretched, and _no_ , it’s not an attempt to give Louis a chance to gaze at the various tattoos that are embedded into the flesh of his arms. Half of them he’d got when he was not particularly sober and on a dare, and the other half he’d got for strong sentimental purposes that would probably take hours to explain. But he honestly wouldn’t mind sitting down with Louis and describing every single one in detail.

“It’s fine.” Louis brushes the offer of food and precious tattoo-ogling time with a wave of his hand, and leans further into the couch. He props his bare feet up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles, and places a hand on the unoccupied cushion next to him, a smirk on his lips. “Come sit, Hazza.”

Harry crosses the space of the living room and settles in where the other boy’s hand had previously been. The couch dips on his side, and he tries his best to not enjoy the way Louis’ thigh is pressed against his. Instead, he inquires, “Hazza?”

“Yeah, I give nicknames to all the people I like.” The older boy shrugs nonchalantly, and then shifts on the sofa until his legs are tucked beneath him, hands clasped in his lap. And then he pouts, poking out the flesh of his bottom lip provocatively, and Harry has to mentally battle himself to keep from leaning in an dragging his tongue across it. Not being handsy is harder than he expected it to be. “What, you don’t like it?”

“No, it’s fine.” And it is because it makes Harry’s chest expand nicely and the pace of his heart quicken dramatically. No one’s ever really given him a nickname like that, a special nickname that only they’re allowed to use, so yeah, it’s kind of a big deal. In order to hide the inevitable blush that’s blooming on his cheeks, however, he leans further into the couch and grabs at the remote to the television, powering it on. “It’s really fine. Now, shhh. Stare at the telly.”

Immediately, Louis snatches the remote out of Harry’s hand, their fingers brushing. He presses the off button and pouts again. “No, no television.”

“Why?”

“I like that your flat is quiet.”

“I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m lonely.”

“So am I.”

“I think I’m going to be lonely for forever.”

“Me too.”

“Can we be lonely together?”

“But wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of our inevitable loneliness?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Is that even an actual question?” Louis throws his head back and laughs, deep and loud and so amused, but it’s cut off abruptly when Harry reaches a hand up to his face and cups the curve of his cheek, leaning in to ghost his lips over the flesh of the older boy’s neck.

There’s not much talking after that.

Harry begins his journey on the skin right above Louis’ collarbone after tugging the neckline of his shirt down, leaving little butterfly kisses on the warm skin there. Goose bumps rise in his wake, and he pauses for just a brief moment to breathe in; cinnamon. Louis takes that as an incentive to card his fingers into Harry’s curls and tug, not roughly, but just hard enough to let Harry know that he approves.

The younger boy continues his travels, pressing his mouth all over the creamy slope of Louis’ neck. For only a moment, a flash of Black Hair appears behind his eyelids, so he switches tactics and sucks a bruise on the junction where Louis’ shoulder and neck meet. In his throat, Louis makes a noise that sounds a little like impatience, so Harry pulls back immediately, but doesn’t go very far. When he leans forward again, Louis meets him halfway there, their lips slotting perfectly together.

The older boy tastes like beer, but underneath that there’s a hint of peppermint, and Harry likes it more than he probably should. The taste is like the spark that flips the switch, and then suddenly Harry has his knees on the couch so that he can crawl over Louis, forcing the other boy onto his back. His knees are resting on either side of his hips, back curled in towards him.

He makes sure to never let their lips break away, and flattens his hands over Louis’ chest. Fuck not being handsy. Louis slides his hands out of Harry’s curls, over his shoulders, down between their bodies and then he’s playing with the hem of Harry’s T-shirt, slipping his fingers teasingly underneath it. Despite the fact that the flesh of his neck and chest seem to be scorching to the touch, his fingers are cold and Harry shivers delightedly at the feeling.  

He doesn’t want this just to be some one-time hot and heavy make-out session; he wants more. And he makes that perfectly apparent when he shifts his hips so that he and Louis are aligned and grinds down with emphasis. Louis makes a sound of appreciation and Harry briefly wonders if he could somehow get that noise as ringtone.

Breath hot on Louis’ jaw and with his voice sounding rough around the edges, Harry prompts, “Can we go to bed?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Louis answers with his mouth looking red and bitten, leaning up to press a sloppy kiss on the younger boy’s nose.

Harry climbs off of him and stands, not wasting a second. He grabs Louis by his wrist and pulls him up off of the couch. He practically drags Louis down the small hallway that leads to where his bedroom is. But right before they reach the door, Louis tugs on his hand and then he’s got Harry pressed up against the wall.

It takes about five minutes for the older boy to finally let go long enough for Harry to push open the door to his room and flick on the lights. Then he’s back on him, connecting their mouths like he needs Harry in order to breathe properly. They stand there for a moment, leaning up against the wood of the doorframe to Harry’s room, kissing their lips raw and sucking fresh bruises into each other’s skin.

Louis breaks away first, his hands still clasped tightly at the nape of Harry’s neck, and he lets his eyes wander around Harry’s bedroom. There’s not much, and it’s pretty standard (bed, dresser, desk, miscellaneous band posters, shitty box TV that stopped working years ago), so that’s why Harry had taken it upon himself to string up white tea lights all over his ceiling, like his own glow-in-the-dark star stickers. Louis takes notice in them and smirks, “Hm, what a hipster, Hazza.”

“Shut up.” And then Harry silences him once more with his mouth.

He walks them backwards towards his bed and then bends his knees over the edge of it so that he’s sitting and Louis is perched in his lap. The mattress squeaks beneath their combined weight. Louis tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair again and Harry gets a firm grip on the curve of the older boy’s hips.

After a minute or two Harry separates them, pulling away from Louis’ lips that are _really_ kiss-swollen now and he questions, “Butterflies?”

“Millions of them.” Louis replies breathily before leaning down and capturing Harry’s bottom lip with his own, licking his way into the other boy’s mouth. The younger boy complies willingly, and then they’re tongues are brushing.

Louis pulls at the fabric of Harry’s T-shirt, letting their lips separate with an audible _pop_ so that he can get it over his head and then tosses it carelessly on the floor. He leans back a moment to admire all the artwork that is tattooed onto Harry’s flesh before he skips going for Harry’s lips and starts a new path on his chest.

Louis kisses each swallow enthusiastically before he’s moving downwards to Harry’s stomach, mouthing just below his navel. He swirls his tongue there for a second before he pulls back a little abruptly, and Harry’s heart freezes for a millisecond. But then Louis is staring really, really hard at the expanse of his chest like he’s puzzled about something and then looks up at Harry with these adorably confused furrowed eyebrows. “Four?”

Knowing exactly what Louis is talking about and feeling a blush creep up his neck, Harry shakes his head. “I’ll explain later.”

It doesn’t seem to be much of a deal breaker, though, because Louis shrugs and then gets right back to work. He mouths at the skin of Harry’s abdomen and uses his hands to teasingly dip his cold fingers in the waistband of trousers. That makes a spark of something akin to electricity shoot up Harry’s spine and an embarrassing noise push out from his lungs. Then then suddenly, the older boy is no longer in his lap, but he’s got both knees on the floor.

“I’m going to suck your dick.” Louis says it sternly like there’s no room for disagreement as he undoes the button of Harry’s jeans, pulling the zipper down in one swift motion. Before he makes another move, he looks back up at the younger boy for confirmation, blue eyes twinkling. “Okay?”

And seriously, Harry couldn’t disagree if he tried. He’s certainly so hard in his pants that it’s almost painful, and he’d die if Louis left him hanging. He licks his lips and lets out a croaky, “Okay.”

That’s all the incentive Louis needs, really, because the next time Harry blinks, Louis is helping him wriggle out of his pants and then is placing kisses all along the inside of his thighs. He nibbles and licks at the skin there briefly; only contributing to the fact that Harry is starting the get really uncomfortable in his boxers.

The older boy seems to read his mind though, because a second later, he’s curling his fingers around the waistband of Harry’s boxers and pulling them off. When the cold air of the bedroom meets Harry’s newly exposed skin, he gasps a little, the noise sounding stuck in the back of his throat. Louis wraps one hand around the base of his cock and looks up at him one last time through his eyelashes. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just do it.” Harry manages to stutter out, carding his fingers in the wisps that caramel that is Louis’ hair. He tries his best not to sound desperate when he urges, “Please.”

And then Louis’ mouth is around him and Harry has to fight every single thing within him to not lift his hips and thrust up. He doesn’t think that’s really appropriate and what if this is Louis’ first time or something? But then that thought is quickly dismissed the moment Louis flattens his tongue to lick up the underside of his cock.

He does his best not to moan like he’s never done this before, but why is Louis so _good_? The older boy has his lips stretched around him, taking in as much as he can (which is a lot) and then his hand is stroking everything his mouth can’t reach. He stays like that for a few minutes before he gets a little braver and decides to bob his head up and down a little. This is the first time Harry has ever felt like his skin is on fire.

“Fuck.” It’s not very long before Louis has Harry reduced to nothing but a pile of quivering, moaning flesh and bones. He can’t even form coherent sentences. “I – I think … shit. I think I’m gonna come.”

And not thirty seconds later, he does exactly what he said he was going to do, coming hard in Louis’ fist since the older boy had thanked him for the warning before pulling his mouth off him but increasing the tempo in his hand. Harry’s chest is heaving wildly, and even though he’s only met this boy a few hours ago, he’s thanking any deity out there is that he did.

“Your turn.” Harry says once Louis has wiped his hand off on Harry’s bed sheets (it’s okay, he was going to wash them anyway), pushing the older boy onto the bed so he’s lying on his back again. Then shucks off Louis’ shirt and trousers and boxes in one dizzyingly fluid movement because he doesn’t want to waste any time. He immediately latches on with his fingers on the other boy’s arousal, and only takes the groan that escapes Louis’ lips as encouragement to keep going.

He pumps his hand enthusiastically up and down the length of Louis’ cock for what seems like an eternity – or rather, what he wishes was an eternity – before he gets the reward of getting to watch the other boy come undone beneath him. Louis’ cheeks are ruddy from exertion and his lips looks like that’s where all the blood in his body went to and he’s making these mewling sounds that seem to match perfectly with the rhythm in which Harry is jerking him off with.

Both of his hands are above his head, and his knuckles are white because he looks like he’s gripping onto Harry’s headboard for dear life. And then he’s repeating the same word, “Fuck.” and rising his hips up off the bed so that he’s the one thrusting into Harry’s hand.

(This is the part where Harry changes his mind about his previous choice in a ringtone. The sound Louis makes when he comes is definitely better.)

It takes a moment, but Louis finally stops writing, and he blinks a couple times up at Harry, his blue eyes that were once drowning in lust now clearing up. He scrunches up his nose and asks, “Four?”

And if Harry wasn’t feeling so blissed-out at the moment, he’d probably hit him. But he lets out a huff that’s supposed to be a laugh and confirms, “Yes, four.”

\--

Harry finally speaks about an hour or two later, when both he and Louis are tired and sated and cleaned up and curled around each other underneath his duvet. “So, I’m lonely.”

Louis yawns, lazy smile loose on his lips as his fingernails graze against the soft trail of hair below Harry’s navel. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.”

Harry licks his lips and caresses the curve of Louis’ shoulder, the flesh beneath his fingertips rising in tiny goose bumps. With a small voice, he says, “But I don’t want to be anymore.”

Another yawn from Louis again, long and sleepy. He replies at the end of it, “Alright.”

“Can you promise me something?” Harry whispers into the dim of his bedroom, eyes mostly focused on a string of tea lights above his head.

The older boy has his eyes closed now, and Harry can feel his breathing beginning to even out. He still answers, though, word just a bit slurred. “Yeah.”

“Can you be here when I wake up?”

“Yeah,” Louis nuzzles his face further into the junction where Harry’s neck and shoulder meet, brushing his lips over the skin there. That sends a shot of electricity up Harry’s spine, but it also spread a warm, comforting feeling through his stomach. “I promise.”

It doesn’t take Harry very long to fall asleep after that.

\--

When he blinks his eyes open, there’s yellow sunlight peeking through his curtains. Outside, there are birds softly cheeping to one another. His vision is a little blurry, but he stretches his arm out behind him anyway, mumbling, “’morning.”

There’s no echo this time.

Only the feeling of someone lacing their cold fingers in his and Louis’ voice whispering into his ear, “Good morning, Haz.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if the smut was a bit lame. It's actually my first time writing something like that. Hope I didn't disappoint?


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